The Last Aerie

by Brian Lumley

  “Leave?” Trask stared at him. Perhaps he stared too long and hard, until his suspicious, anxious thoughts were visible. But in any case, the Russian shook his smooth dome of a head.

  “No, not Perchorsk, not just yet, anyway. You have shown a measure of goodwill in this thing, despite that you consider my methods draconian and unfair. And so I’m willing to forget our differences, for the present at least. I meant only that you should leave this laboratory, go back to your rooms, and get a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow you may continue what you were doing, these language lessons. Meanwhile, I’ll arrange to have someone flown in who knows Romanian and the Romance languages in general, probably an empath.”

  Goodly spoke up. “What about Nathan’s rights, Turkur? Or being an ‘alien,’ doesn’t he have any? Think how you’re treating him. Why, he can’t even lie down in this birdcage, not in any comfort! Are you going to keep him here all night? Do you think it will impress him to take you into his confidence?”

  Tzonov merely glanced at him, then offered an exasperated, irritated shrug. “Do you two know how aggressive you are? Whenever I try to be flexible, you reply with criticism! But as I’ve tried to explain, these measures—this cage and cleansing area—are only temporary precautions until we can be sure of him. Even now we can’t relax, not with one hundred percent confidence, until the results of our tests are known. But acting on your reassurances … yes, I am willing to ease up a little. Which is why I require you to leave. You see, I intend to move him—right now, tonight—to more suitable but nevertheless secure accommodations.”

  Trask grunted a barely perceptible “Huh!”, following it with: “And you don’t want us to see where you’re putting him, right?”

  “That is part of it,” the Russian answered truthfully. “But as for the rest: nothing has changed. It’s for your own safety! You are my guests here. Think how it would look, how I would feel, if some harm should befall you.”

  They might have argued the point but Tzonov was through with talking. He called for the soldier on the door, and the British espers were escorted back to their rooms. Left alone, they talked for a little while, but both men were weary now.

  As Trask readied himself for bed, Goodly stuck his head into the room. “What about him?” he said.

  “What about who?”

  “About the visitor, Nathan Kiklu … or Nathan Keogh? One thing’s certain: this isn’t the Harry Junior we knew. He’s much too young, and we know that the Dweller was a vampire when last Harry saw him. But according to David Chung, something of the Necroscope has come back. So what do you think?”

  “You saw him, didn’t you?” Trask got into bed. “Chung’s right: Kiklu may be his name, but Keogh was his father. He’s not the Dweller, no, but he is a son of Harry Keogh. I mean, he has Harry written all over him! Then there’s that earring of his. Didn’t you notice it?”

  “I noticed it,” Goodly nodded. “Harry’s Möbius sigil, yes! Interesting times ahead, Ben. Interesting times.”

  Trask was tempted to mention something else: that Nathan had spoken to him in his waking and dreaming hours alike. But spoken to him in his mind, when Trask wasn’t even a telepath. He was tempted, but kept it to himself. A case of what Goodly didn’t know Goodly wouldn’t think about. And in a place like this, what he wouldn’t think about couldn’t hurt him …

  4

  Nathan and Siggi

  While Trask and Goodly prepared for sleep, Turkur Tzonov spoke to Siggi Dam in her room. Pacing the floor before her where she lay sprawled on her bed, his attitude was far from romantic; in any case, what had passed before was mainly for show; they had been lovers some years ago, an affair which terminated when he discovered his rivals—or rather, how many rivals. Currently when they were brought together by their work, they were still “lovers”; but it was no longer the state of being, just the act.

  “Some progress has been made, but not enough,” he told her. “Tomorrow the British will want to see him again, and it would not be prudent to stop them. When we have some more of our own people here, that will be time enough. Meanwhile, it can’t hurt to go through these tediously slow processes. After that we’ll only let Trask talk to our visitor for an hour or so at a time, and always under supervision. Proving Nathan’s humanity—and so far the results of our tests do appear positive in his favour—was only the first step. Discovering why he’s here, and especially at this time—that is now our top priority.”

  “You don’t think it’s just a coincidence?” Siggi sat up and stretched, arms above her head, breasts jutting, the platinum flow of her hair highlighting her strong jaw. Looking at her, Tzonov could almost wish he was free tonight.

  “I think it most probably is a coincidence,” he answered, “but best to be sure. What, the son—or a son—of the Necroscope, Harry Keogh, here in Perchorsk again? An outcast from Starside? Oh really? Or is he something else entirely? Did he escape here, or was he sent? And if the latter, why? And so it goes. We need answers to all these questions …”

  Siggi had been asleep for an hour or two. Her nightgown was of very flimsy stuff: white chiffon, shot through with metallic silver lamé. Again Tzonov caught himself wishing that he was free tonight. But no, he intended to supervise his soldiers—his soldiers, a hand-picked platoon which he had managed to infiltrate into this place over a period of time—in the removal and relocation of their arms cache to a secure, more discreet armoury on a disused magmass level below the core. In another hour or so, when only a handful of scientists remained on duty, then he’d be able to make a start.

  And between times he had calls to make, not least to the Kremlin, to report the occurrences of the day, but also to his own E-Branch HQ on Protze Prospekt, to enlist the skills of an empath-linguist. These and several other administrative tasks would keep him amply occupied through the small hours, and in any case he was tired and felt the need to conserve his energies. In a purely physical sense Siggi could be very demanding. And there again, he had other plans for her …

  It was not usual for Sigrid Dam to read the minds of her colleagues, but on this occasion she was curious about Turkur Tzonov’s mental state. Normally he would be implacably stable, indeed unshakable, but occurrences over the last week seemed to have unnerved him in however small a degree. Siggi was his confidante, it could even be said his “right-hand man” in the scheme he’d been hatching for several years now: to usurp the Soviet Premier and elevate Russia to world domination via the untapped resources of an alien world. The timing of the coup was crucial and hinged upon an invasion of the parallel world of Sunside/Starside. When the time was ripe Tzonov would make his move: first Premier Turchin’s removal by use of some discreetly ephemeral poison, by which time Tzonov’s seat on the Demokratik Politburo would have been secured. Then, with the esoteric resources of E-Branch for backup, he would propose himself for Premier and almost certainly be elected. In the interim his soldiers would have invaded the world beyond the Perchorsk Gate, returning via the Romanian Gate with firsthand knowledge—and even the first fruits?—of whatever was on offer in that unknown, primitive, and incredibly dangerous place.

  But Tzonov was well aware that he was not the first esper to plot political … revitalization? And he knew only too well the difficulties his predecessors had come up against. The name of one such obstacle had become a curse among the rank and file of Soviet E-Branch: Harry Keogh. But for sixteen years now the man or monster known as the Necroscope had been banished from the face of the Earth, until finally he’d become little more than a myth, a legend, a bad dream. Old fears that one day he might return—fears shared by British E-Branch no less than its Soviet equivalent—had not been realized. Possibly the Necroscope was dead; certainly the British thought so. Or was it that Keogh had not been able, or simply hadn’t desired, to return?

  And now this visitor, this Nathan Kiklu.

  A refugee from a vampire world? Or a spy for monstrous Wamphyri masters on Starside? That remained to be discovered. That and wha
tever else Tzonov could learn from him. The trick would be to ensure that the British espers didn’t learn more. It rankled a little that they were here by order of Gustav Turchin on Tzonov’s own recommendation; but in fact he’d believed they would be needed. Now that they were no longer required he must continue to be their host of sorts, and at the same time learn whatever he could from them, especially with regard to their previous knowledge of Sunside/Starside.

  It was all very delicate, complicated, fraught with pitfalls. But until the visitor had been thoroughly interrogated and dealt with, and British E-Branch were out of here, and the whole seething cauldron had settled down somewhat, Tzonov must tread wary and hold his greater plans in abeyance …

  Many of these things in Turkur Tzonov’s mind were “overheard” by Siggi. Since she was already aware of their theme in general, they made no significant impact. But certain thoughts of his had impacted upon her: in particular, his vague but less than gallant reference to what he would term her promiscuity. Knowing Tzonov’s psychological problem —his egocentricity, the fact that it bordered on egomania—Siggi was also aware of the paradox: that he was jealous and possessive beyond all reasonable bounds. It was the reason he changed partners so frequently. Only let one of his women display the slightest awareness of or interest in another man … he would fly into a rage and the affair would be over. But Siggi also knew that if the day should ever dawn when Tzonov came up against a man who was his mental, physical, and political superior all three, then he’d be finished. So far that day was a long way off, but still his nerves showed ragged edges in the presence of men like Trask and Goodly. They may not be his physical equivalent, but mentally they were probably a match for him; it took some of the shine off his ego.

  Tzonov had stopped pacing and was looking at her. “Oh? Is there something … ?” Perhaps it was the look on her face.

  She shook her head, changed her mind, and nodded. “Perhaps there is. Turkur, we’re agreed that you are the leader and I am a mere follower, however high in the ranks, and that in some not too distant future my loyalty shall be suitably rewarded. Not a very novel scenario, but still I’ve gone along with it in every respect; so much so that I’m probably guilty of treason against the state, and certainly against its Premier.”

  He frowned and nodded. “Both of us, Siggi, and E-Branch, and all of our agents and recruits, including certain generals in the so-called Citizens’ Army. So what are you getting at?”

  “Only this,” she answered, sitting up straighter. “If I’m really your second-in-command, which is the next best thing to being your partner, then I wish you’d stop thinking of me as a slut!”

  “Do I?” He looked surprised.

  “You think of me as … promiscuous,” she answered, “to say the very least. You can’t even look at me without remembering your ‘rivals.’ But they weren’t rivals, merely lovers, and briefly at that. If I were to dwell upon all of your conquests in a similar light, what would that make you? A lech, a rake, a bloated and diseased roué? Being male, perhaps it would please you to be so considered. But I’m a woman and it doesn’t please me!”

  His pale eyebrows came together as his frown grew more intense, curiosity turning to anger. “My dear,” he said, his words very precise so as to make their meaning clear and unmistakable, “promiscuity is not the word. That would simply mean that you were indiscriminate in your sexual relations. And I would never think of you as a slut, which for me describes a common person of very low intelligence, whose body is worthless. No, you’ve read me wrong. You are neither indiscriminate nor common, but simply … unbalanced.”

  “What?” She stood up, faced him, shrugged into her dressing gown, and belted it tightly.

  “Oh yes,” he insisted. “It’s all in the mind. I’ve known it for a long time, and I’m sure that you have, too. You’re a nymphomaniac, Siggi. That is how I think of you, because it’s what you are. Men hold this morbid fascination for you. Almost all men!”

  “Get out!” she said. All the colour had drained from her face. “In this instance, rank has no privileges. You’re in my room, and I want you out of it! And I don’t ever want to see you in it again!”

  “Of course you don’t.” He smiled thinly. “Until the next time, when your needs overcome your disgust—of yourself!”

  “Out!” she said again, and made to stride to the door. He caught her wrist, brought her to a halt. And his anger was as great as her own.

  “Siggi, listen. This is nothing new but how it always was between us. It’s the reason our relationship failed. But there are relationships and relationships. And there must be discipline in our working relationship! What you said a moment ago is true: in the eyes of all the dupes of this great country of ours and its so-called demokratik system, we would be traitors. If our ties are weakened by sexual conflict, that’s as it may be, but it must not be allowed to interfere with our purpose, our goal overall.”

  She was calmer now. “What, and am I a fool as well as a slut? Of course we must continue to work together—or fall together. But right now I would prefer you out of here. I have to dress. And as for your thoughts about my personal life, in future you can keep them to yourself.”

  “That’s where you have the advantage,” he told her. “Your thoughts are guarded—hidden in mind-smog—whereas you can read mine like the pages of an open book!”

  It was true, she knew. Telepathy was a two-edged sword. If one was curious to look into another mind, one must accept its contents. Tzonov could no more disassociate himself from his thoughts than from his limbs. They were a part of him.

  And now he was thinking about this Nathan, and the instructions which he had previously given to her. He was about to issue a caution, one she could read in his mind (even as he himself had acknowledged) “like the pages of an open book.”

  “Don’t worry,” she told him, however grudgingly, as she opened the door to let him out. “I’ll go to Nathan and talk to him, see if I can worm my way past this freakish talent of his. We seem to be two of a type, this primitive and I. Perhaps our shields can be made to cancel each other out. If it’s at all possible, I’ll get into his mind for you.”

  “Good!” Tzonov looked at Siggi one last time, luring her eyes with his own. A wasted effort; her static got in the way; he could only read her when she desired to be read. And at the same time he’d left himself wide open. There was another instruction, a final order in his mind … but he was wise enough to leave it unspoken. It concerned Siggi and Nathan: what she must not do when she was with him.

  Closing the door in his face, she thought: Fuck you! But she made sure she kept the thought to herself …

  In her anger, Siggi was no less human than any other woman or man, and it was only after Tzonov had gone that she knew what she should have said to him: that the level of sexual activity in any normally healthy body is only as high or low as opportunity will allow. How many affairs die stillborn because their would-be authors are afraid to voice their feelings? But with a telepath … ? When Siggi met a man who wanted her, she knew it at once, as surely as if he had whispered in her ear! Why, sometimes it was as if he had shouted! And if he should have that special something that attracted her—that indefinable something, that sex appeal, which is different for all women, thereby allowing for relationships between all types—what then? Knowing what was available, was she supposed to ignore it?

  But by the same token, and once the first flush of sexual excitement had burned itself out, she would also know the rest of her lover’s thoughts. She knew too well the luscious, juicy, shivering lust that could turn to a weird disgust just as soon as a man had fired himself into her; knew also that the moment she read such a thing in a lover’s mind—the first time he thought of her in such terms, in her entirety, as a darkly quaking, coarse-haired, sucking hole—then the affair was over. Even if the thought was fleeting, transient, still it signaled the end, always. But while it was painful, Siggi had learned to accept it; she knew that another
lover would come along soon enough and the first flush be reborn.

  Ordinary lovers were fortunate, in a way. Because their minds were their own and inviolable—because they could not see the truth, the various disaffections and dissatisfactions gradually growing up between them—they tended to pretend it was always good and unchanging, that their sex together would always be like the first time. It was a ploy that even worked for some of them, and their love lasted a lifetime. But only for a few, for even the blind are not deaf and dumb, too.

  And yet Siggi was not without hope. Somewhere, sometime, she might meet a man like herself, whose mind was unfathomable, a secret thing known only to himself. And there was an old saying that was never far from her thoughts: what the eye doesn’t see, the mind won’t grieve. Two choices then: find a lover who would be satisfied quite simply to love her, in every sense of the word, or one with the skill (and the compassion?) to keep his baser thoughts to himself. Ah!—and of course the will to keep from reading her own!

  And so … a sex maniac? No. But a realist, an opportunist, a desperate searcher? And was Tzonov himself any different, any better? Siggi knew that he was not, but that unlike herself he had not yet come to terms with it. Nor could he while his ego intruded. He had called her a nymphomaniac because his ego demanded it. “Obviously” there was a flaw in her psychological makeup, for any “normal” woman couldn’t possibly find time for other men, not while Turkur Tzonov was around. What were other men anyway, compared to him? Yet in Siggi’s case … her taste in all other matters was impeccable. Wherefore this was not a matter of taste but addiction. Hence his use of that word which describes a woman addicted to men …

  Such were the warped convolutions of Tzonov’s thinking when facing a problem that challenged his ego. And such was Siggi’s assessment of him as she prepared to interrogate, in her way, this visitor, this Nathan Kiklu.